I see faces.
They are everywhere: in clouds, in trees and bushes, in stone walls, marble floors, in paintings and photographs, and even on the moon.
Some seem familiar, some are expressive; some are mischievous, others angelic.
Some smile, others appear to be howling.
A psychiatrist might say I suffer Pareidolia.
Or maybe Aprophenia.
Or maybe not.
I don’t believe the faces I see convey hidden messages, or that only I can see them.
They’re just there, and I see them.
